


The White Rose Blooms Again

by FalconHonour



Category: The Sunne in Splendour - Sharon Kay Penman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-04-15 10:11:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4602837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalconHonour/pseuds/FalconHonour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A House Divided Is A House Fallen" When Anne Neville manages to bear Richard Duke of Gloucester more than one child and York and Gloucester stand united in 1483, rather than divided, the history of England takes a rather different turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I: 1472-1475

**I: 1472 -1475**

What struck Anne first were all the people. The narrow streets of Middleham were thronged with men and women, in such numbers that she realised at once many must have been drawn from the neighbouring villages. As she glanced back over her shoulder, intending to ask Richard if the Monday market day could somehow have been changed in her absence, they began to shout. With a start, she realised the cheers were for her, for their lord the Earl’s daughter come home at last.

Above the keep itself flew the standard of Gloucester. Anne shielded her eyes, gazed upward at the scarlet and blue background bannered with the Rose-en-Soleil, the cognizance of her cousin Ned, and Richard’s tusked Whyte Boar, the Blancsanglier. As she watched, it dipped and then unfurled to full length, held there for a moment as if pinned against the vivid streaking sky.

Turning, she saw Richard had reined in beside her.

“We’re home,” he said.

She beamed back at him, let him spur his horse ahead of hers over the drawbridge, galloping like a boy in his excitement. As he disappeared, she laughed breathlessly, the delight of the moment so filling her that she had no room for any other feeling. She was home! Home at Middleham, recognised by all the world as Richard’s wife and Duchess of Gloucester!  Suddenly no longer caring what people thought of her, she unpinned her headdress, tossing it carelessly over her shoulder for one of the women behind her to catch. Blowing a kiss to the throngs of cheering villagers, she spurred her own mount forward and cantered beneath the portcullis with her burnished russet-blonde hair streaming in a ribbon behind her.

Richard met her in the courtyard, his arms outstretched.

“Welcome home, My Lady Gloucester,” he chuckled lowly, sweeping her from the saddle as soon as she reined back.

“Richard!” she squealed, betraying how young she still was in that moment, as her arms went round his neck and he bore her across the courtyard, as any husband would bear his bride across the threshold of their new home.

“What do you say we stake our claim to your parents’ bed?” He murmured huskily, nuzzling her flowing hair as he spoke.

Anne flushed, startled that he would express his desire for her so publicly.

“Richard!” she protested, but, mingled with the shock and the shame was a by now familiar throb of real desire, one that made her giggle like a child as he broke into a run up the great stairs.

* * *

 

“The Duchess would like to see you in her solar as soon as it is convenient, My Lord,” Richard’s steward greeted him as he rode into the courtyard at a canter, and pulled back on the reins to avoid running down any of the half-dozen dogs that swarmed about the white stallion’s legs.

At the words, Richard glanced across at the steps of the castle, alarm filling him as he saw them empty. In the eight months since they had taken possession of Middleham together, Anne had never once failed to welcome him home. Indeed, the older servants had begun to whisper that their love for one another was just as fierce as that between the late Earl and Countess of Warwick. Which indeed it was.

So what was keeping her from the gatehouse now? Tossing the steward the reins, Richard swung himself from the saddle and ran a hand through his tousled dark curls.

“Thank you, John. I’ll go up at once.”

He fought to keep his voice level, but he knew only too well that his apprehension must be showing in his eyes. Thankfully, the man didn’t comment on it, only murmured, “Very good, Your Grace,” and led the horse away as Richard turned and half-ran towards the doors of Middleham.

He reached the solar far quicker than any other man would ordinarily have done, but still not quickly enough for his liking. To his relief, however, the scene within seemed tranquil enough. Anne sat sewing, attended only by Veronique and Constanza, her closest confidantes among her ladies. The former was also sewing, while Constanza plucked desultorily at the strings of a lute.

“Anne.  John said you wanted to see me?”

“Richard!” She sprang to her feet at his voice, crossed the room to him, turned her face up for his kiss. He held her close, a little reassured at seeing her move so easily, but far from entirely quiet in his mind.

“Are you well, sweetheart? I must confess, you had me worried, not coming out to greet me as you usually do.”

At his words, Anne did a most unusual thing. She laughed, turning in his arms to face the women.

“Vero?”

The Frenchwoman came over to her, pressed a scrap of fabric into her outstretched hand, then swept out of the room, pulling Constanza with her before the other woman could protest. Anne watched them go, then turned back to Richard, placing the scrap of fabric in his hand.

“I know it’s a few weeks early, but I couldn’t wait. Merry Christmas, my love,” she smiled.

Mystified, Richard looked down at the piece of fabric he held in his hand. Lovingly crafted out of silk and Brussels lace, it was a minute christening gown, such as he had seen his nieces wear at the lavish Court ceremonies that had accompanied their baptisms.

Glancing from it up to Anne, he saw her face was alight with joy; alight with a secret she was clearly bursting to tell him. In that instant, clarity burst upon him in a great dazzling rush as bright as the three suns of York.

“Anne!” He gasped with joy; swung her up off her feet and twirled her around. She beamed down at him, laughing, and caught his lips with hers.

“Congratulations, my Lord of Gloucester,” she murmured into the kiss, making his lips tingle pleasurably with the vibrations, “You’re going to be a father.”

* * *

 

“Congratulations, Your Grace. The Duchess has been delivered of a baby boy.”

Richard swung round at the midwife’s words. As they slowly sank in, his face split in two in the widest grin he thought he might ever have given anyone. “Sweet Jesus be thanked!” he cried, and was about to dash out of the room to go to Anne, when the matronly woman made so bold as to put a hand on his arm.

“Your Grace...the babe was weeks too early. He’s hale enough for now, but he’s very small. So small I fear the slightest thing might snuff him out like a candle flame. And the Duchess had a very hard time of it.”

“What are you saying?” The joy had gone from Richard’s face now, to be replaced by cold, desperate fear, “Might I lose her? Lose them both?”

“Not both, thank God. The Duchess has youth and determination on her side; she will recover. Though I feel I ought to warn Your Grace, I doubt conceiving another child too swiftly would be good for her.”

Richard nodded absently, impatient to be off and visiting his wife and child. No sooner had the midwife taken her hand off his arm than he had pressed a pouch of silver into hers and gone. He bounded up the stairs, reaching Anne’s bedchamber in record time. The women in there tidying looked up at his footsteps; curtsied and scurried out at a single hand movement.

Anne, too, lifted her head, smiling tiredly at him, “Richard,” she held out the tiniest bundle he had ever seen, beckoning him towards the bed, “Come and meet your son.”

He crouched down on the edge of the great bed beside her, took the babe into his arms. He cradled the tiny boy as gently as if he was made of glass, scarcely daring to touch the fair downy head with more than the very tip of his forefinger. When the midwife had said his son was small, he’d scarcely dreamt she meant this delicate. He almost feared breathing over the boy might bruise him, he seemed that fragile.

“Thank you, my love,” he murmured, glancing up just long enough to kiss Anne’s temple and push a stray strand of her hair out of her eyes with his lips, “You’ve done so well.”

“What shall we name him?” Anne whispered in return, though she knew the answer almost before it had formed on Richard’s lips. After all, Richard had grown up idolising his oldest brother; their bond now was the strongest she had ever seen between siblings. How could Richard do anything other than name his eldest son after him?

“Ned, for my brother.”

Knowing she would not change his mind even if she wanted to, all Anne replied was, “As you wish, Richard. Ned it is. God willing, he’ll have a sister named Isabella within the year.”

She knew she was making bold; not many men would brook their wives wishing for a daughter so openly, but allowances had to be made for women in childbed, and she knew it. Besides, Richard had always been different; being Cecily Neville’s son had ensured he never saw women as nought more than delicate political pawns.

He too, said nothing, only quirked an eyebrow and twisted his lips into that crooked half-smile she so loved.

“What my lady wife commands, my lady wife shall get, if she is only willing to help in its attainment,” he breathed, leaning up over the babe to kiss her heatedly and bring a scarlet blush to her cheeks.

“For shame, Richard! You would speak so in front of your son?!” she protested, but her protest had little more than laughter in it and they both knew it. He laughed himself, kissed her one last time as he put Ned back in her arms and then swung himself off the bed, “I’ll go and have Middleham’s bells rung in honour of our son.”

Anne couldn’t help the grin that split her face as he left. She watched him out of sight and then turned her attention to the bundle in her arms.

* * *

 

Richard’s bedchamber was shuttered, admitted neither light nor cheer. He signalled and behind him, a torch flared into life. Anne didn’t stir as he approached the bed. Long, loose hair trailed limply over a bared shoulder. It was uncombed, dulled to a lifeless brittle brown. Her face was pinched and bloodless, as white as the sheets upon which she lay; her eyes were closed, but the lids looked bruised and inflamed. She looked lost in the vastness of their bed, huddled and still under the weight of silken summer coverlets.

Richard sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. Her lashes lifted.

“Beloved, I’m sorry,” he leaned over to touch his lips to her forehead and was taken aback when she turned her face away.

“Anne, be you angry with me? Because I wasn’t with you? Sweetheart, I did come as soon as Nan’s message reached me.”

She shook her head swiftly, vehemently. Her face was pressed into the pillow and her voice so muffled, so indistinct, that he had strain to hear her words.

“Forgive me.”

“Forgive? Forgive what, Anne? I don’t understand.”

The way her shoulders hunched forward told him that she wept, “I’ve failed you.”

“Anne, that’s not so.”

“It be a wife’s duty to give her husband children. You have the right to expect that of me. Yet I haven’t. I’ve failed you.”

Richard pulled her up; wrapped an arm around her and turned her in to face his chest, nuzzling her dark blonde hair, “There is something I would have you know, Anne. When you told me this autumn that you were with child again, I could take little joy in it.”

She pulled back, regarded him with shock and uncertainty.

“Richard, why? You want more children, I know you do.”

“Yes. But there is something I value far more, Anne. Your life. Ned’s not even a year old yet and the midwife did tell me that if you conceived too soon after his birth, your own life might well be forfeit. You had such a bad time when he was born, your body may not have recovered enough to bear another yet. Another twelve months might make all the difference. Remember, you’re barely twenty; I’m not yet twenty-four. We’re yet young enough to have more children. We’ll fill the nursery yet, you mark my words. Just give yourself more time.”

Burying her face in his shoulder, she wept fiercely, even as he tried to wipe her hot tears away with the pads of his fingers and kissed her wet lashes.

“Hush,” he said, “Hush.”

* * *

Anne cradled her little girl in her arms, raining kisses down upon the downy hair. Healthier and stronger than her older brother, the baby whimpered, then began full-scale wailing as she struggled to escape her mother’s smothering caresses.

“Let her breathe, love,” Richard chuckled, entering the room far more sedately than he had done after Ned’s birth. Anne glanced up sheepishly, “I’m just so happy.”

“I know, but she’s not going to disappear,” Seating himself on the edge of the bed, Richard held out his arms silently. Anne flushed and handed over their daughter. Richard stroked the minute nose and then looked up at his wife.

“We’re calling her what we discussed, I take it?”

“Of course. Isabella, for my sister and my aunt.”

“Ned will wonder why we don’t call her Cecily for ma mere,” Richard warned. Anne scowled,

“We named our son for your brother. Surely nothing could be more fitting than to name our daughter for my sister?”

Richard held up his free hand, “Peace, love. I meant nothing by it. I was only teasing. “

Standing up, he took his tightly-swaddled daughter over to the window and opened it slightly, wrapping her in his doublet to keep the balmy July breeze from startling her or making her ill.

He bent his head over the baby so that his mouth was level with her ear, breathing into it words so soft that Anne had to strain to hear them.

“Welcome to the world, Lady Isabella of Gloucester.”


	2. II: April 1483

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer to the familliar passages of Chapter I: All right, I admit it. I stole a great deal of Chapter I - specifically the opening and Anne's miscarriage - straight from Sunne in Splendour. I did it because I love the way Penman writes and because I thought she dealt with those emotive passages far more tastefully than I ever would. From here on out though, the story is my own, I promise. On that note, enjoy Chapter II!

**II - April 1483**

“There are horses on the bridge, Mama,” Six year old Robert, Anne and Richard’s youngest son, named for their old friend Rob Percy, announced loudly, as he leaned against the door leading into her solar. Anne looked up, laying her sewing aside and rising to her feet.

“Thank you, Robbie.” She crossed to the window bay .and glanced down into the bailey. Half a dozen dapple grey and chestnut horses were ranged around the yard. The animals were lathered in sweat, foaming at the mouth and heaving. Anne’s senses were instantly heightened by a growing sense of unease; one that was only deepened as she noticed the banner one of them was carrying – the Rose-en-Soleil. Ned’s banner.

“Robbie. Go and get your father,” Anne fought to keep the worry out of her voice as she spoke to her son, though she kept her eyes fixed on the bustling courtyard below her, “Tell him he’s needed in the Great Hall, now.”

“Yes, Mama,” Robbie replied, scurrying out of the room. Anne watched the King’s men out of sight as their steward ushered them into the castle and then turned, pinning her hood more firmly on her head and hurried downstairs herself. Whatever was going on, Richard was going to need her.

Richard was already in the Great Hall when she reached it, his back to the room as he stared into the flames in the grate, a scrawled letter in his hand. He was incredibly still, and that was what worried her. Richard was the kind of man who couldn’t keep still. He was always fidgeting, tapping his feet or drumming his fingers on his thigh. To see him this determinedly still scared her.

“Richard?” She quavered, unable to keep the tremor out of her voice, despite her best efforts.

He turned to her, tried to smile. But his eyes stayed as hard as granite and his voice, like hers, was clearly shaking beneath a veneer of iron control. “You’d better order your women to start packing. This has just come from Hastings, Ned’s Lord Chamberlain. My brother died in London a week ago.”

Anne moved forward, put a hand on his forearm, “Dickon..”, she started, using his old nickname in a futile attempt to comfort him. He shook his head slightly, though he did place his hand over hers under the shield of the parchment he was holding.

“Parliament have named me Lord Protector until the new King can be fetched from Ludlow and crowned. We ride for London at nightfall.”

Anne hesitated, wishing she could offer Richard some more obvious comfort; the comfort she knew he’d so desperately need at this point, suddenly bereft of his beloved older brother. But they were in public; the serving men of York clustered in the hall around them, awaiting their orders. They couldn’t be Richard and Anne, the man and wife who cherished each other supported each other in their hour of need; they had to be the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester; the most powerful couple in England after the royal couple themselves.

At last she nodded, “As you wish, husband. I’ll give the orders.”

Squeezing his arm almost imperceptibly, she turned to the servants, dipped her head and swept from the room among their bows and murmured greetings of ‘My Lady Protectoress”.

* * *

 

 “Christ’s Blood! What does the bitch think she’s doing?” Richard swore more fiercely than Anne had ever heard him as he stormed into their bedchamber in Warwick Castle.

She glanced up, arching an eyebrow, “The Queen Dowager?”

“Who else?  She’s taken both her sons and all her daughters and hidden herself away in sanctuary at Westminster.”

“What?” Anne blinked in shock, “But...that suggests she doesn’t trust you. That she doesn’t think you’ll fulfil your brother’s last wishes and see her son safely on the throne. How are we supposed to show the common people a united front and keep York safe if the Queen Dowager openly shows she doesn’t trust you?”

“Precisely,” Richard scowled, “I’m willing to work with her for my brother’s sake, but if she can’t see that...” He trailed off as a messenger tapped on the door.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but this has just come for you from Westminster. The Queen Dowager’s man said it was urgent.”

“Thank you,” Richard nodded, took the letter and broke the seal. He read every line of it; his naturally dark features turning blacker and blacker with every word.

“No! No! Never in a million years will I accept such an offer! Does she not think I can do better for my daughter than her low-born brat of a son?”

“Richard!” Anne cried, dismissing the startled messenger with a sharp hand gesture. She slammed the door behind him and then spun round to her husband, reaching up to grip his shoulders as tightly as she could. “What is it? Talk to me!”

“Elizabeth. She writes that she’ll come out of sanctuary if and only if I swear a public oath of allegiance to her twelve year old son as King Edward V and allow Izzy to be affianced to her son Richard Grey as a token of my good faith.”

“That’s preposterous! We can do better for Izzy than a mere Knight!” Anne agreed, before holding her hand out for the letter and reading it herself.

“But why would the Queen require such an oath from you? Is Edward not the rightful heir to the throne; Ned’s eldest legitimate son? Surely there’s no question of his ascension?”

A surprisingly prolonged silence followed her words. So long she began to doubt her own convictions.

“Richard?”

“Some would say otherwise,” Richard admitted in a whisper, “There are rumours Edward wasn’t free to wed Elizabeth Woodville; that he had precontracted himself to Eleanor Butler, the daughter of the Earl of Shrewsbury long before he met Elizabeth. If it’s true, then Ned’s marriage to our former Queen would never have been valid in the first place. Their children would be naught but bastards. It would mean I’d be Ned’s heir rather than little Edward, since George is dead and has already been tainted with the shadow of treason.”

“Do you believe those rumours?”

“I don’t know,” Richard murmured hollowly, “Women were so important to Ned...if Eleanor Butler did what Elizabeth did and refused to bed him without a promise of marriage...who knows?”

“Do you believe them?” Anne repeated, “As a boy of eleven, you faced down my father and told him that you wouldn’t countenance the idea of Ned doing anything that wasn’t honourable. Do you still believe that?”

There was a pause; a pause so prolonged that Anne began to doubt that Richard would ever answer her at all.

“I have to believe that,” he whispered at last, “The loyalty my heart tells me I owe my brother demands that I believe it.”

“Then let me ask you this; as a boy of eleven, you told my father that Edward of York would never do something so dishonourable. Will Richard of Gloucester be that dishonourable when his brother would not? Will he strip his nieces and nephews of the only life they have ever known on the basis of some half-murmured suspicions and his dislike of their mother? Or will he follow through on the wishes that his brother so clearly expressed as he lay on his deathbed? Whatever it takes?”

Richard hesitated, but the tension was seeping from his body. Anne could feel it leaving his shoulders where her fingers rested upon them. At last, he exhaled. “You have the right of it, as always, my love. Why should I roll over in the face of Elizabeth Woodville’s demands? Why shouldn’t I make a few of my own?”

He took her face in his hands and kissed her, so long and hard that Anne was gasping for breath when he drew back. She reddened, lips already bruising where his mouth had been.

“I married the Kingmaker’s daughter,” he whispered huskily, “I married the Kingmaker’s daughter, so now let me make our daughter a Queen.”

* * *

 

 “My Lady, a message from the Lord Protector,” Elizabeth’s handmaiden handed her the letter bearing the Blancsanglier of Gloucester. Elizabeth nodded, waving her away carelessly and breaking the seal almost in the same movement.

Unbeknown to Elizabeth, her expression followed a very similar pattern as she read Richard’s letter to that of her brother-in-law’s when he had read hers. Face like thunder, she stormed into the Abbot’s presence chamber. Her eldest daughter Bess and her brother the Bishop of Salisbury sat together in the window seat, their heads clustered close in conversation.

“Damn his nerve! Does he not know who I am?!”

Elizabeth was purple with fury. The other two leaped to their feet.

“Sister, calm yourself,” Lionel held his hand out for the letter and Bess leaned on his arm, scanning it eagerly.

“It’s from Uncle Dickon, Mama, and he says he’ll accept your conditions to come out of sanctuary; says he’ll swear public allegiance to Edward by the city gates. How can you be so angry?”

“Keep reading,” Elizabeth said tightly.

“He wants you to allow William Herbert to replace Anthony as Edward’s governor and to promise to betroth Edward to his little daughter Lady Isabella as a token of your faith in him.”

“How can he think I’m going to allow that? Any of that? Anthony’s done a fine job raising Edward, why would I take my son away from him on the orders of the Duke of Gloucester? And why would I allow my son to be betrothed to an English girl, when a foreign match would be so much better for him; do so much more for his international prestige? Who does Richard Plantagenet think he is?”

“He’s Lord Protector of England and your husband’s much loved and respected brother,” Lionel retorted, before putting a hand on his older sister’s shoulder, “Calm down, Elizabeth. This is nowhere near as bad as you think it is. William Herbert might not be Anthony, but he’s still a strong Yorkist. Earl of Huntingdon, he was Mary’s husband and seemed to be kind enough to her, so he’s not openly against us, and rumour has it that Gloucester wants to marry his own bastard daughter to him, so they’re not at odds either. He might be able to be an intermediary for us. Would you rather it was Lovell or Ratcliffe whom Gloucester wanted to take charge of Edward? Men who make no secret of the fact that they owe their loyalty to him and him alone, rather than to York as a whole?”

Reluctantly, Elizabeth shook her head, “That would be worse,” she admitted, “But I still resent Richard’s presumptuousness. I could wish that Ned had never been so indulgent of him; had taught him his real place in the world; to respect his sovereigns.”

“He did respect you as his Queen, Mama. And he loved Papa. He’ll do his best by Edward for Papa’s sake. Surely he will? He wouldn’t offer his own daughter as a bride if he didn’t mean to do his best by him?”

“I wish you weren’t so naive, Bess,” Elizabeth snapped, “You’re like your father, always thinking the best of your uncle Gloucester. This is that Neville chit’s doing. Just because her father was instrumental in crowning Ned, she thinks to make her daughter a Queen as well. I’m sick to death of everyone thinking she’s a fragile flower who needs protecting. She’s far from it. After all, didn’t she inveigle her way from Lancaster’s bed into Gloucester’s inside a twelvemonth? That’s proof, if ever it were needed, that she knows how to play the game of thrones better than anyone.”

“But she has the North behind her. They loved her father and they love her because she is his daughter. Which means they’ll love Lady Isabella for her sake. And whatever you think of her, you can’t fault her bloodline. God knows it’s better than ours. Anthony was saying only this morning that we’re too hated to rule alone.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, but Lionel carried on before she could, talking over her in a way he would never have dared to do when she was the reigning Queen and not Queen Dowager, “We have to come to some sort of accord with the other nobles. Betrothing Edward to Lady Isabella will help us with that; help us hold the North against the Scots. Which would leave the fleet I know you’ve commanded to be assembled free to be sent against the Tudors in Brittany; deal with the Lancastrian threat once and for all.  Let the match be arranged, sister. It’s a long way from bended knee to the altar.” Lionel winked at Bess, but she flushed and turned her head away, his unintended reference to her broken betrothal to the Dauphin cutting too deep to be a laughing matter.

Elizabeth, too, flushed, but then she scowled. How dare Anthony be so reasonable? How dare he put her in this position? Didn’t he understand how important protecting her son’s interests was?

 Her fury was only sharpened by an unpleasantly nagging feeling that her brother was right. She hated it when he was right.

“Very well,” she snapped, “We accept. For now. The moment Gloucester does anything against my little boy, we have him strung on a gibbet for treason. Edward, at least, will still listen to what I tell him to do.”

* * *

 

 The Rose-en-Soleil of York snapped brightly above Edward’s head as he rode out of Westminster to the northern gate of London, his sisters Bess and Cecily on either side of him and his brother Dickon just behind him. He wasn’t sure what he made of this. He scarcely knew his brother, and he knew his sisters even less well, having seen them only on the rare occasions when ceremony made it necessary for Papa to send for him to come to Court. He wished Uncle Anthony could be here with him, rather than the sisters he hardly knew. Yet, because of the man they were riding to meet, he had been taken away from Uncle Anthony’s care and placed with a man called William Herbert, or Lord Huntingdon, whom he had never met, though was told had been his Aunt Mary’s husband when she was alive. Edward didn’t like that; didn’t like the fact that, although he was King, he couldn’t choose who he surrounded himself with.

He was uneasy about Bess’s clear trust in their uncle of Gloucester, too. Uncle Anthony had always told him Gloucester couldn’t be trusted, was a dangerous man. Yet Bess clearly adored him, as her excitement when she spied him riding towards them proved.

“He’s here! Edward, Uncle Dickon’s here!” Reaching over impulsively, she grabbed his arm, then, releasing him, spurred her palfrey forward to meet the dark-haired man on the white stallion at a canter. He whipped off his hat with a flourish and drew rein to spring from the saddle, catch her reins and pull her down from the saddle for a hug.

Edward stiffened to see such informality between them. Didn’t Bess realise her position as a Plantagenet Princess? Didn’t she realise she had to behave more appropriately, now that she was no longer a little girl? Goodness knows he knew it and he was only twelve, a full five years younger than her seventeen. But the people, who had been cheering more dutifully than lovingly up to this point, suddenly roared approval to see their favourite Princess greet her beloved uncle so happily as she rode free from sanctuary. Edward felt the swell of approval surround him and let a brief smile twist his lips. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad after all, if Bess’s informality and obvious popularity with the lower classes gave him a reflected glory he could bask in until he made his own name as King.

Bess had wound her arm through Gloucester’s by now and was leading him towards Edward. Edward began to ride to meet them and then suddenly checked himself. Who was he to meet this proud Northern Lord halfway? He was the King; let Gloucester remember that. Let him have to humble himself if he wanted to keep this shaky alliance alive.

To Gloucester’s credit, he didn’t falter, only walked with Bess to within half a dozen paces of Edward’s horse’s hooves. There, Bess dropped down into a deep, graceful curtsy.

“Your Grace,” she announced, her young voice carrying clearly over the suddenly hushed, expectant crowd, “May I present our uncle, Richard, Duke of Gloucester?”

Richard knew his cue better than the greatest actor in London. Without waiting for Edward to respond, he fell to his knees, bowing his dark head as deeply as was humanly possible.

“Your Grace, I kneel before you now, before all these witnesses, and pledge my fealty to you as my one and only legitimate sovereign, as I once did to your father, my greatly loved and missed older brother, Ned. I, Richard Plantagenet, by the Grace of God, Duke of Gloucester and by the will of Parliament Protector of this most glorious realm, do hereby truly and sincerely acknowledge, that you, Edward, of the House of York and the fifth of your name to bear the crown of England, are the only true King of this realm. I swear, before all these witnesses that, from this day forth, I shall do all within my power to keep Your Grace safe upon the throne of your forefathers.  I swear this upon my word and upon my true and pious Christian faith. May God strike me down if I fail to keep my word.”

Edward hesitated, leaving Richard kneeling for a little longer than necessary as punishment for taking his Uncle Anthony away from him, then nodded, “I accept your oath in good faith, my Lord of Gloucester. Pray God that you keep it and do not displease me during your Protectorate.”

The tension visibly dissipated as Richard kissed Edward’s hand and rose, “May I in turn, present to Your Grace your future bride, my daughter Isabella?”

“You may, my Lord Gloucester,” Edward replied, hiding his unease behind a mask of courtesy. This was another part of the deal his mother had struck he wasn’t so sure about. Taking the daughter of a man his mother so clearly hated as his Queen, when that girl was only six and as such, a full nine or ten years away from being able to bear him a son and heir? Did he have that sort of time?

In his musings, the kind he had been trained almost from birth to make, Edward forgot that he himself was only a boy of twelve and as such had decades ahead of him before men started to worry that he might perish without an heir. He thought like a man three times his age; like the King he had been trained to be.

 His musings also kept him from noticing Isabella’s approach until she was almost level with his horse, curtsying prettily and saying, in a high little thread of a voice, “Good day, Your Grace. I am honoured to make your acquaintance.”

She held a lavishly embroidered sword belt in her tiny hands; one she now extended to him, “A gift for you, my royal cousin,” she explained, “My mother the Duchess helped me make it. she said it was a suitable present for a girl to give her betrothed.”

The words seemed far too grown up for her. She had only too obviously been coached in her role for weeks. Edward looked at her properly for the first time, taking in her long dark hair, her big brown-black eyes. She was pale and trembling as she struggled to keep her curtsy steady.

Edward found himself feeling an unexpected surge of pity for his child of a cousin; this innocent little cousin of his who was scarcely more than a baby, yet had already been told she was to marry him whenever their parents found it convenient. He gathered his reins in one hand and leaned down from the saddle to take the sword belt from her, squeezing her slender fingers slightly where their hands touched on the leather.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said, clearly enough for the crowd to hear, “I shall look forward to wearing it with pride and as a sign that York and Gloucester shall soon be united forever. Now, I believe it is customary for a husband and wife to share a horse on occasion. Should you like to ride into London with me?”

Her dark eyes sparkled, “Yes, please, Your Grace!”

“Edward,” he corrected, “If we are to be wed, you must call me Edward, Lady Isabella.”

“Then you must call me Izzy,” she replied, beaming up at him, “Lady Isabella sounds old. I’m Izzy, not Lady Isabella.”

Despite himself, Edward chuckled as he waved for Isabella to be lifted up on to his horse in front of him.

“Izzy it is then,” he answered in return, wrapping his arms securely around her and picking up the reins once more, “Lean back against me.”

With a final glance at her father to reassure herself, Izzy did as he said and the two of them rode back into the city together, followed by Bess and Richard and with the great cheers of the crowd ringing in their ears.

York and Gloucester had been publicly reunited at last and, after weeks and months of uncertainty, it appeared the White Rose and the Whyte Boar were going to continue to live in harmony after all.

 


	3. III: June-September 1483

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, what do you know? I haven't abandoned this after all... No excuses whatsoever, I'm terribly sorry!!
> 
> For those who need a recap: Richard has two sons and a daughter by Anne Neville rather than a single son. It's June 1483, Edward IV is dead, but rather than fight the Woodvilles, Richard has betrothed his daughter, Isabella, to Edward V. Everyone's on the same side and it's all going to be happily ever after... right? 
> 
> No promises, or about the speed of updates, but I promise it won't be over a year!!

**Chapter III: June - September 1483**

Even as Edward and Isabella rode into London, however, there were cracks appearing in the riotously joyous façade that the Woodvilles were striving to project. Though few in England truly denied the young King’s right to rule, there were those who resented the fact that the majority of those around him, even now, had at least loose ties to his maternal family. The young Duke of Buckingham, Henry Stafford, was one of these. He had long resented what he saw as undue Woodville interference in his own sphere of influence and hated the fact that his wife was one of them – although he did concede she was at least as comely and fertile as her older sister.

Then there was the Tudor thorn, roaming freely around Brittany as though he was a guest and not a prisoner. Slight though his threat was to the robust Edward, especially with Richard to shore up the Succession until Edward had a son of his own, one couldn’t deny it was there, especially not when you were as paranoid as Elizabeth Woodville.

“If only Ned had inveigled him out of Brittany! He’s going to try something, I know it,” she ranted, pacing the floor of her bedchamber, as her oldest son Thomas stretched indolently in the window seat, watching her.

“Tudor? What can he do to us now? He’s holed up in Brittany and no one will ever take his claim seriously. Not now, not with Edward safely on the throne and Gloucester behind us. If Gloucester had moved against us, it would be different, but…”

“Edward isn’t safe yet! He’s not crowned. Gloucester insisted that a May coronation showed indecent haste, said we had to put it back out of respect for Ned. Poppycock! He just wants to hold on to his power.”

“But if we crown Edward, his daughter will be Queen. How could any man resist that?”

Elizabeth looked at the young man scathingly, “I can see whose brains you inherited. Lady Isabella won’t be Queen, not unless she marries Edward. They’re betrothed, nothing more. It’s a long way from bended knee to the altar, and Gloucester knows that. He knows the Protectorate is a more secure base of power than any other he’ll hold, especially with George Neville dying last month. He wants to keep his position for as long as he can, because the longer he holds it, the more favourable the terms he can dictate.”

Thomas opened his mouth to reply, but Elizabeth spun on her heel, “Save your breath. You won’t say anything sensible anyway. Now, come along. Edward is hearing audiences today and I want us to be there. Gloucester will be and it would be well to remind everyone just who Edward really looks to.”

She swept out of the room without another word, and Thomas had no choice but to follow.

* * *

Edward sat in the ornate carved chair on the dais, hand loosely clenched on the hilt of his sword as he waited for the last of his petitioners to come forward. The day had gone well so far. He’d heard a score of audiences and none seemed to have gone away utterly dissatisfied. But then, none of them had been particularly important. This last, however, was. It was Henry, Duke of Buckingham, one of the richest men in England.

Henry bowed as Edward waved to him to approach, “Your Grace.”

“My Uncle Buckingham.” Edward replied coolly. It was common knowledge that the Duke of Buckingham was a poor liege lord and an unreliable ally. Edward was wary of giving him any more than he already had, and no doubt that was the reason he had come to him today. That’s all anyone ever came for, power, titles, influence.

Bored of the flowery praise that had surrounded him ever since he was born, Edward tuned out much of the early part of Buckingham’s speech, as he often did, but snapped back to attention when he heard the words, “Mary Bohun”.

“I beg your pardon, my Lord of Buckingham?”

“Your Grace, what could be more natural than for me to lay claim to the half of the Bohun inheritance that has lain in abeyance since the traitor Prince of Lancaster was slain at Tewkesbury? After all, am I not a direct descendant of Lady Mary’s sister Eleanor, who shared the inheritance with her? Do I not already control the Stafford part of the inheritance? All I ask for is the other half of the inheritance, to which I have the greatest claim by blood, to be granted to me as a favour on the eve of the event we all anticipate with such joy, Your Grace’s coronation.”

Horror coursed through Edward and he knew without looking that the same horror would be reflected upon the faces of his mother and brothers. To give the power of the Bohun inheritance to Henry Stafford, when he had never made a secret of his dislike for them?  When he had never proved to be an able lord to the tenants he already had? Impossible!

But he couldn’t show his horror as vehemently as he wanted to. No King would. So he drew himself up and replied courteously, “I hear your plea, Lord Buckingham, and I accept the validity of your claim. However, I think you will find that Lady Mary’s half of the Bohun inheritance was subsumed by the Crown upon the deaths of Henry and Edward of Lancaster. I will consider your petition, but I will say no more than that for now. Good day.”

“But, Your Grace - ” Buckingham protested.

“Good day, My Lord Buckingham,” Edward repeated, a little more forcefully. This time, Buckingham got the message. He bowed and retreated.

“You’re not going to award it to him, are you?” No sooner had the doors swung shut behind Buckingham than his mother had burst out anxiously. Edward chuckled, a little harshly, and reached out to pat her hand, “Have no fear, Mother. Uncle Anthony and I have worked with Buckingham at close quarters before now. I know he is not to be trusted with the full power of the Bohun inheritance. No, I have other plans for those castles.”

“You do?”

“I thought I might give them to Uncle Anthony, as a reward for his loyal service all these years. Or perhaps to my half-brother Richard. After all, he’s the King’s brother. We can’t have him being a pauper now, can we?”. no

At his words, his mother’s eyes lit up, even as his uncle Richard’s face clouded.

“Sire, even half the Bohun inheritance is a lucrative gift. I would caution against giving it away so lightly,” he warned. Edward’s spine stiffened and he turned to his uncle. How dare he try to stop him rewarding one of his family? He might be the Protector, but he wasn’t the King. And Edward was no child like Henry VI had been when he had a Protectorate. He was almost a man grown. He wouldn’t be swayed on this, not when the alternative was to have to put up with Buckingham begging for it constantly.

“Would you rather I gave it to that untrue creature, Buckingham, Uncle?” he snapped.

“I would rather you did not risk alienating one of the richest men in England, Sire,” Richard replied calmly, “It is too early in Your Grace’s reign for that. Let the matter lie for a year or two. The Bohun inheritance has been in abeyance since 1471. It can wait a little longer.”

“Thank you for your counsel, Uncle, but I think otherwise.”

“Your Grace, I am the Protector. No award would go through without my…compliance.” There was a definite pause before Richard uttered the word compliance, and Edward pounced on it.

“You were going to say permission,” he accused, “Well, Uncle Gloucester, might I remind you that it is I, not you, who will be crowned with St Edward’s crown at the end of the month? Might I remind you that it is my name that lends legitimacy to all the orders you give, not your precious title of Protector? And if you wish England to be taken seriously internationally, as I am sure you do, you will understand that you cannot afford to undermine my slightest decision, even if I am not quite at my majority yet. For while I may be too young to fully rule, I am sure you will agree that I am not too young to know my own mind and to be taken seriously. Or would you have all of England say that Richard of Gloucester is a tyrant who stifles our true King and keeps him on a child’s leading strings?”

Edward watched his uncle’s face as he uttered those last words, knowing nothing was more important to the Duke of Gloucester than his public reputation. It darkened for a moment, before, knowing himself trapped, Richard acquiesced.

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

“Excellent,” Edward turned in his seat, searching the room for his older brother Richard, “Richard. Come here and do me homage for the Bohun inheritance. I’ll see it put under signet immediately and ratified by Parliament as soon as I call one.”

Barely keeping his shock from showing, Richard Grey moved forward and did as he was told. Richard of Gloucester watched the scene unfold with misgivings, knowing this was the young King asserting his independence and praying the impulsive gesture wouldn’t bring severe consequences with it.  He rather feared it would.

* * *

What Richard feared came to pass. No sooner had Buckingham heard of Edward’s grant of the Bohun inheritance to his brother Lord Richard Grey, than he opened clandestine negotiations with Lady Stanley and her son the Earl of Richmond. By August, he had left the country and joined Tudor in Brittany, opening talks about an alliance. Richard’s spies kept him abreast of the details: in exchange for a sizeable amount of men and ships, Tudor would marry the Duke’s recently widowed sister Alice and make her his Queen.

By mid-September, things had moved fast enough that there were tales of a Breton mercenary fleet assembling for an invasion. As soon as the Queen Dowager heard them, she called a family conference.

* * *

“Tudor’s straining at the leash, yet my Lord Protector sits back and does nothing!” Will you stand there and tell me now that he truly has Edward’s best interests at heart?! Well, will you?!” Elizabeth glared at Bess first, and then at her brothers, who lounged in chairs nearby. Anthony stood up, and stretched out a hand placatingly “He does seem to be taking things rather slowly, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a plan. Should we not just give him time, sister?”

“Time?! Time?! With a pretender breathing down my son’s neck? I think not! No, it’s past time we forced the lord of Gloucester’s hand. Let him prove where his loyalties truly lie.”

“But how do you intend to do that?” Bess looked up at her mother, wide-eyed, “And why would you want to? He knelt publicly to Edward, he betrothed his own daughter to him. What more proof do you want, Mama?”

Elizabeth didn’t appear to hear her daughter, only turned to her and issued an order, “You will ask your younger sisters to send to the Lady Protectoress, asking that she allow the Lady Isabella to spend a day or two with them so that she may get to know her new sisters. Leave the rest to me and your uncle Lionel.”

Bess opened her mouth, but Elizabeth cut her off, “You’ll do as you’re told. I’ve told you over and over you think too highly of your Uncle Dickon. You’ll leave this to those of us who actually know the real Richard Plantagenet.”

 Bess could read her mother’s mood accurately enough to know she wouldn’t like being questioned directly about her plans just then, so she changed tack, “You won’t hurt little Isabella though, will you? She’s just a child.”

Elizabeth smiled and patted her daughter’s cheek, “Bless you. No. We won’t hurt Lady Isabella. I give you my word on that.”

Mollified, Bess rose and curtsied, “Then I shall do as you ask of me, Lady Mother,” she said formally, before slipping away. Elizabeth watched her go and then turned back to her brothers, “Good.”

“Of course she will,” Anthony replied, “Bess has never been anything other than dutiful to you, you know that. But I don’t see what good this will do you.”

“Oh you don’t, do you?” Elizabeth smirked, “Then let me enlighten you, dear brother. I may not have liked Marguerite d’ Anjou, but I won’t deny she was as good a strategist as any man. And well, surely what worked for her with Lady Isabella’s mother and grandfather will work for us with the little Lady of Gloucester. “

Elizabeth paused and waited while the penny dropped. Anthony’s jaw fell open for an instant, as did Lionel’s, before they recovered and contented themselves with looking at Elizabeth with matching grins of malicious glee.

“That, my dear sister is a stroke of genius,” Lionel breathed.

“I’m glad you approve,” Elizabeth returned their approving glance with a half-smile of her own, “Now, once Lady Isabella is with the girls, here’s what we’ll do…”

* * *

“Have you heard? Tudor intends to sail within the month!”

“Of course I’ve heard, My Lady,” Richard said shortly, pinching the bridge of his nose. He knew he had to work with the Woodvilles; the young King would have it no other way. But by God, Elizabeth didn’t make it easy!

 “And what do you intend to do about it?”

Richard hesitated and Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed, “You set great store by your precious title of Protector, Lord Gloucester. Let’s see you live up to it and protect my son.”

Richard groaned inwardly and began to think on his feet. In truth, he’d had half this planned out already, but he didn’t appreciate being forced into revealing it before it was fully thought out, especially not to the paranoid Queen Dowager who would be only too happy to blame him if anything faltered.

“The first thing to do is to send envoys to Scotland to reopen the negotiations for Cecily’s marriage,” he mused, “We can’t have James riding down trying to take advantage of our turmoil.”

“Anthony can go,” Elizabeth retorted quickly, eager to ensure someone she trusted was in charge of the delicate matter of her son’s marriage. Richard grimaced, but said nothing, knowing who went was of less importance than sending them out quickly. These didn’t have to be serious negotiations, just enough to stall the northern issue until they had dealt with the more pressing one of Tudor and Buckingham.

“We’ll have to have Edward crowned as quickly as possible now. Nothing screams legitimacy more effectively than a lavish ceremony. And we should station militias along the South Coast. I thought we’d put John Howard in charge.”

“I don’t think so,” Elizabeth said silkily. Richard paused, taken aback. He’d never thought Elizabeth was one to meddle in affairs of war, unlike the Angevin she-wolf. Before he could recover, Elizabeth went on.

“You’re such a reputable soldier yourself, Lord Gloucester. Everyone knows how well you acquitted yourself with the vanguard at Barnet and Tewkesbury and how smoothly your Scottish campaign went last spring. What could give the men more morale than to know you yourself are fighting in their midst, should it come to that. And of course, my son would see you rewarded.”

Richard raised an eyebrow. The Woodville bitch thought she could bribe him into compliance, did she? “Go on,” he said slowly.

 “The Neville inheritance could be yours in perpetuity, not just for life. The full Neville inheritance.”

Despite himself, Richard’s jaw dropped open for the briefest of instants before he regained control of his body. To offer him something that generous, well, she must be desperate. It seemed he’d underestimated her. Both in how well she knew his deepest desires and in how far she was willing to go to protect her children. Rather than react, however, he dipped his head and moved for the door.

“I shall think on what you’ve told me, Madam.”

“Do. And while you’re thinking, remember that your daughter now resides with us in the Tower.”

“What?” Richard whirled around. Elizabeth met his furious gaze with an implacable one.

“Is she not the King’s betrothed? Is it not fitting that she live with him while her father rides south to fight for her future country? Indeed, my Lord, if you rode for St Paul’s now, you might just get there in time to see my brother the Bishop of Salisbury proclaim her Edward’s wife.”

Richard reacted on instinct. He crossed the few paces between them and slapped her across the face. “How dare you? How could you take my daughter?”

“She is my son’s betrothed.  I had every right to. And anyway, I needed to be sure you would fight for Edward. Your wife seemed surprisingly amenable to my suggestion that we marry the children immediately.”

At that, Richard felt another wave of fearful, furious anger rise up in him, “If you’ve hurt Anne…”

“Have no fear. Your precious wife is perfectly safe. Go back to Baynard’s Castle and assure yourself of that if you must. But I do want you on the South Coast before Tudor gets there. It would only be in your best interests. After all, it’s your daughter’s crown you’re defending now.” 

* * *

“You fool, Anne! How could you just sit back and let the Woodville bitch take her? How?”

“The letter was signed by the Princesses Anne and Katherine. All they claimed to want was to give Izzy a chance to know her new sisters.  I had no real reason to refuse and I didn’t want to give the Woodvilles any reason to distrust us. I didn’t think any harm could come of it. They’re just children!”

“Children very firmly tied to their mother’s skirts!” Richard roared, “Did you not think you should offer to host them here, or at the very least go with her?”

“You’re the one who said we had to at least pretend to be friendly with the Woodvilles!” Anne screamed back, “I was just doing what I thought you wanted!”

Richard snorted derisively and turned on his heel. He was almirreost out of the door when Anne spoke again, and this time, her voice was little more than a trembling thread.

“Richard please. I’ve lost my daughter today. Don’t let me lose my husband too. Please.”

Despite himself, Richard turned around at the desperation in her voice. Anne sat on their bed, clearly barely holding herself together. As their eyes met, he couldn’t find it in him to be angry at the betrayal in her gaze. Whatever Elizabeth Woodville might think of Anne, she wasn’t a consummate player of the game of thrones. She was an innocent; an innocent, who tonight, had been irredeemably betrayed by a Jezebel who could play it only too well. She was hurt and shocked; shaken to the core. She needed him.

He sank on to the bed beside her and pulled her into his arms, feeling the damp soak into his doublet as she broke down into tears.

“Peace, sweetheart. Peace. We’ll get her back. I swear it. We’ll get Izzy back. I’ll go and deal with the Tudor threat to satisfy our accursed sister and nephew and then we will demand that they give Izzy back. They’ll not hurt her till then. They need her too badly. They need her Neville and Gloucester blood too badly.”

Even as he rocked Anne in his arms, however, Richard was praying to all the saints he knew that he was speaking the truth.

 


	4. IV: November 1483 (I)

**Chapter IV**

Izzy had never seen a finer gown than the one she was wearing. Not even the one Mama had worn when Ned had been made Earl of Salisbury had matched this one. It was of silver velvet studded with amethysts and trimmed with deep purple ribbon. Tiny chips of delicate ornate silver – her nurse said it was called fillygree or something like that – had been woven into her riotous dark curls. The cloak she wore was longer than any other she had ever seen. It was ermine fur dyed indigo and embroidered with silver roses of York and boars of Gloucester and was so soft, she just wanted to wrap it around herself and bury her face in its warmth. In fact, she was doing just that when the door opened and Princess Elizabeth – or Bess, as she insisted upon being called – walked in, holding Izzy’s older cousin Maggie by the hand.

Izzy caught their eye in the mirror and flushed pink. Her nurse had explained to her that the coronation was the most important of her life, because it would make her Queen. She ought to act grown-up, not bury her face in her furs to feel how soft they were.

Bess’s lips twitched, and for a moment, Izzy thought she was either going to laugh or scold her, both of which would have been horrible. Izzy hated being laughed at, and her father’s pages did that often enough. And being in trouble on her coronation day would be even worse.

Suddenly she remembered something. The coronation would make her Queen. The Queen was the most important lady in England.  No one could tell her off, not really. Thus bolstered, she set her jaw defiantly. She’d bury her face in her furs if she wanted to.

Bess, however, said nothing, only sank into a curtsy as her sister, Princess Cecily, entered the room behind her and followed suit.

“My Lady Isabella. How beautiful you look. Edward will be pleased.”

Izzy flushed even deeper, turning fuchsia. She still wasn’t used to the Princesses making way for her, even though she and Edward had been married for nearly two months, which was simply ages. Eight years was even longer and Mama had been teaching her that the Princesses were the most important girls in England for that long. That lesson didn’t go away that easily. And she still hated being called Isabella. It reminded her too much of being in trouble. But Queen Elizabeth had insisted that Izzy was too simple a name for a Queen. Only Edward was allowed to call her that now, because they were married. Everyone else had to call her Isabella, when they weren’t calling her “My Lady” or “Your Grace.”

Izzy felt a hand touch her sleeve and looked up to see Cecily smiling down at her.

“Come on, Queen Isabella. It’s time. If you’ll allow us to escort you?”

Suddenly too nervous to speak, Izzy nodded, letting the older girl put a gentle hand on the small of her back and guide her to the door. Maggie and Bess fell into step behind them, picking up the yards and yards of ermine that trailed in the dust as the cloak fell from Izzy’s shoulders to the floor and beyond.

In silence, the quartet descended the stairs, crossed the hall and stepped out into of the Tower’s inner courtyards, where Edward, standing tall in a doublet, hose and cloak that were a reversal of hers in terms of colours, awaited them.

“Izzy,” he smiled, extending his arm to her as she dipped a careful curtsy, desperate not to mark her new gown, “You look very pretty. What a fine Queen you will make. Isn’t that so, Lady Gloucester? Lord Salisbury?”

His young voice rang out as he sought Mama and Ned’s eyes in the crowd that milled around them. Izzy’s mother and brother stepped forward and Mama looked them both up and down in that special way she had.

“Indeed, Your Grace,” she said at last, “Your father and uncle would be very proud.”

Her words were faultless and Edward nodded, satisfied. “Lord Salisbury. You’ll ride behind my sisters’ litters in the procession back from Westminster. I can think of no one better to head the procession behind us royals. After all, aren’t we family now?”

Ned went red with pleasure and nodded, “I won’t let you down, Your Grace!”

“See that you do not. We wouldn’t want anything to spoil today, would we?”

There was something strange in Edward’s voice and Izzy looked up at him, puzzled. His words were to Ned, but he was looking at Mama. Looking at her hard, as though she was in trouble. Izzy squeezed Edward’s arm where she held it, suddenly nervous.

He smiled down at her, but his bright grin was ruined by Mama’s reply.

“No, Sire,” she said slowly, “Now, we would not. It is, after all, a great day for the House of York.”

Again, there was nothing wrong with her words. But Izzy knew Mama. She was only that careful with what she said when she was upset and knew there was nothing she could do about whatever was upsetting her.

Izzy bit her lip. She didn’t know why, but for some reason, Mama wasn’t happy about the fact that Izzy was becoming Queen. And Izzy wasn’t sure she wanted to become Queen if Mama wasn’t happy about it.

But there wasn’t time to protest. Edward was already helping her into her saddle, handing the leading rein to his father’s oldest friend, Lord Hastings and mounting up himself. He glanced across at her as he took up his reins and saw her uncertainty.

“Smile, Izzy,” he encouraged her, “The people will love us, I promise. Just follow my lead and smile at them.”

For the briefest of instants, he reached out and squeezed her hand. And then they were off, clip-clopping through the first of many gates on their journey to Westminster.

* * *

Richard sat atop his horse, his hands curled into fists around his reins. His face was a picture of calm, but inwardly he was seething. The other general, Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey had decided that it would be a good idea to remind the men that their young King and his bride were being crowned that afternoon, to boost their morale.

And perhaps it had worked, for the infantry, the common men under their leadership. All it had done for Richard, however, was remind him that his innocent young daughter had been ripped from him and turned into a Woodville pawn. Oh, he could try to protest the marriage if he wanted, on the grounds that both Edward and Izzy were under the age of consent, but everyone knew the children had been betrothed months ago. That he’d been the one to suggest that betrothal in the first place. It made his argument far weaker than it would otherwise have been. And then there was that blasted precedent of the young Duke of York and little Anne Mowbray. No one had protested their marriage…and Izzy and Edward were far older than they’d been. And Edward was King. No one would truly wish to challenge his right to do what he wanted. Not at newly thirteen and barely a year off being able to rule in his own right.

His jaw clenched at the thought of his impotence and his hands tightened on the reins. His mount side-stepped restlessly, pawing the ground and snorting as it picked up on his tension.

“Careful, Dickon,” Francis Lovell cautioned, riding up from the centre to join him in the vanguard, “Anyone who sees Ninian pawing like that might think you’re not confident in our chances against this Breton rabble-rouser. Or else that you’re not content to be doing your duty by our new sovereign. You don’t want that to get back to the Woodvilles, do you?”

“They’ve crowned my daughter alongside their son,” Richard snarled lowly, so that only Francis could hear him, “Do you realise what that means? It means she’s Queen and I can’t take her home. Not without depriving England of her Queen. And I can’t do that without awkward questions being asked, so I can’t take her home. Which means I can’t get her back from the Woodvilles. I promised Anne I’d get her back and I can’t.”

Despite himself, Francis’s jaw dropped open as the full import of Richard’s words sank in, “What are you going to do?”

For one long moment, Richard hesitated. Then he reminded himself that was Francis, who had ridden with him and been loyal to him since the days of their shared boyhood at Middleham.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, “I honestly don’t know.”

At that moment, a sharp, metallic horn’s blast interrupted whatever Francis had been about to say next. Buckingham and Tudor’s forces had been sighted and they were preparing to engage.

Francis cut him a sidelong glance, “Come on. If you can meet the Woodvilles in London and present them with Tudor and Buckingham’s heads for the gates, they’ll have to reward you. You’ll have a lot more leverage over them.”

Richard nodded tersely, slammed down his visor and followed as Francis spurred his horse down the hill.

* * *

The smoke was almost overwhelming. Izzy’s eyes were burning in the excess of incense and it was all she could do to keep from crying with the pain of it, but she wouldn’t give into tears. Mama had taught her the importance of keeping a smile on her lips in public now that she was Queen and had told her she would have to do it even when she didn’t want to. Anyway, Edward was so calm. The incense barely seemed to be affecting him and all she wanted was to prove she was as good as him. Because she was. She was a Plantagenet of Gloucester and his Queen. She wasn’t a silly little girl, not any more. No one could possibly be allowed to think, especially not him and especially not today. Not on their coronation day.

As such, she used every inch of her training as her husband’s uncle, the Bishop of Salisbury, led her through her vows and anointed her with oil from a beautiful gold and glass flask before placing a delicate silver circlet set with rubies upon her head. He placed an orb and sceptre in her hands, the way he had done with Edward, before kissing her hand and stepping back.

Applause rang out for a few moments, before Edward rose to his feet and came across to her. He took her hand and helped her down of the throne, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm.

“You’ve done really well,” he breathed, stroking a loose curl out of her eyes, “Now, let’s go and meet our people, hmm?”

Relieved to have his approval, Izzy beamed and nodded. Now that it was all over, she could admit to herself that she’d been scared people would think her a fidgety baby sitting next to Edward, who’d been so still throughout the ceremony.  That they’d disapprove of her even though she’d tried so hard and hadn’t cried at the incense. That Edward, at least, thought she’d done well, meant a lot to her. In fact, with Edward smiling down at her, she felt like everything was all right and always would be.

Unbeknownst to Izzy, she’d just become the first, but by no means the last, to fall for Edward’s share of the York-Woodville charm, which, at thirteen, he was just beginning to grow into.

The two young monarchs followed the Bishop to the door of the Abbey, where he proclaimed, “To the North and to the South, to the East and to the West, and by the power vested in me by Almighty God and the Succession of St Peter, I give you Their Graces, King Edward, Fifth of that name and Queen Isabella. God Save and God Bless Their Majesties!”

The crowds lining the square and the streets surrounding the Abbey erupted, cheering themselves hoarse for their young King and the pretty little girl at his side. They surged forward, desperate to catch a glimpse of their new sovereigns, or perhaps, for the very luckiest, a chance to touch them or speak to them.

The trouble with mass delighted hysteria, however, is that it can only too easily turn nasty, or have unforeseen consequences that are tragic rather than blissful. Only too aware of this and fearing for their new royal couple’s safety if things did go wrong, a phalanx of guards headed by Sir Edward and Anthony Woodville and Lord Hastings closed in around Edward and Izzy, protecting them from the mob and briskly escorting them to the safety of their grandmother’s London residence Baynard’s Castle.

Unfortunately, the guards, despite their best efforts, couldn’t protect everyone. The Earl of Salisbury, never a strong rider at the best of times, thanks to his delicate health, was jolted in his saddle when his horse spooked at a shower of silver shillings thrown out to appease the crowd, as these things often were at royal fetes. A guard snatched at the animal’s trailing rein but missed and, though he set off in hot pursuit, couldn’t prevent the young Queen’s older brother being thrown from the beast’s back. Before a multitude of horrified eyes, the boy sailed several yards through the air and cracked his head on one of the temporary wine fountains set up to appease the populace’s thirst. Before anyone could think to run for help, Edward of Gloucester, Earl of Salisbury, lay dead on the cobblestones, not half a mile from where his sister had been crowned in such glory only an hour earlier.

 


	5. V: November 1483 (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I think this is what we've all been waiting for. The adults in Edward and Izzy's lives to be brought up short. Enjoy!

**Chapter V**

Izzy broke down in tears when the news of her brother's death reached them. Her mother moved towards her, but Edward was quicker. He pulled his young wife into his arms and rocked her as she wept, forestalling Lady Gloucester's protests with a silent glare. Izzy was his wife now, not her daughter. It was up to him to comfort her, not Lady Gloucester.

"Hush, Izzy, hush. It'll be all right. I promise. I promise."

"It's not fair! Everything was going so well and then….and then!"

"I know, I know," Edward soothed, "But he saw you crowned, didn't he? He saw you crowned as the most powerful lady in England. He'll be so proud of you, of his little sister. And he'll be watching you from Heaven. I know he will be. So, he'll still be watching over you, just like he would if he was here on Earth. You needn't worry about that."

Izzy, however, was not to be comforted, "But I want him here! He's my brother! My brother!"

"I know. And I can't make it better, darling, but would it help if you think about the fact that I've got lots of brothers and sisters you can share if you like? I know Dickon will never be able to replace Ned, not for you, but I promise you he will love you and care for you just like Ned would do if he were here. And you never had sisters, did you?"

"No…" Izzy sniffled, shaking her head slightly. Edward gave her an encouraging squeeze, "Well then. Now you have five. So you'll see. We'll make our own family."

"I don't want to forget Ned!"

"And you won't. He's your older brother. You'll never forget him. We'll name our oldest son for him, hmm? And I promise you, those guards who let him go, who let him fall? They'll face the axe in the morning. They'll face the axe for letting any harm come to our beloved brother the Earl of Salisbury. You have my word, do you hear me? You have my word."

The ferocity in Edward's voice dried Izzy's tears, if only because of her surprise.

"You'll kill them? Just because they let Ned die?"

"Of course I would. They let harm come to your brother and distressed my Queen. I cannot let that go unpunished," Edward had raised his voice by now, the dark undertones in it letting his gathered courtiers know that he would not be gainsaid in this. Lord Hastings went to step forward, possibly to protest, but the look in Edward's eye, as their gazes met over Izzy's head, stopped him in his tracks. Edward's gallantry to his young Queen might be of the macabre sort, but if he insisted, then he was too old to be swept aside like a younger child might.

As such, no one said anything as Edward held Izzy close for a moment or two longer before giving her a little push in her mother's direction, "Go on. Go to the chapel with your mother and pray for your brother's soul. I'll come and join you shortly and we'll plan the funeral. He'll be buried with all the honour due a Plantagenet Prince of York, I promise you that."

* * *

The battle was over. It had scarcely lasted two hours. In truth, it was surprising it had lasted even that. Richard and the royal forces had held the high ground and the rebels had been forced to attack uphill, exhausting themselves before they'd even properly engaged. And then William Stanley had done what no seasoned commander would have done and led a rash charge down off the hill. Richard had watched in horror, instantly forbidding any of his own cavalry from following. What on earth did the man think he was doing? Was he riding straight for Tudor?

It had seemed so, as Sir William's force had torn through the phalanx of mercenary knights surrounding Tudor, getting close enough to cut down Tudor's standard bearer. But then they suddenly swung sharply right and Richard had realised what their true plan was. He'd caught his breath at their audacity. They weren't worried about Tudor, but rather about the die-hard Lancastrian Earls of Pembroke and Oxford. And he could see why. With the Earls caught off guard and hopefully out-flanked by the sudden charge, the Lancastrians would lose their most effective military commanders. They'd be put into disarray, leaving them easy pickings for the royalist forces.

Richard had raised his own standard then, roared, "A Gloucester! A Warwick!" to gather his own men and surged down to reinforce the Stanley charge, intercepting the Buckingham men, and meeting them in a clash of steel and screams and blood.

And now it was over. Buckingham lay dead on the field, cut down by Richard's loyal retainers Sir James Harrington and Tyrell, and Tudor was in custody, being fiercely watched by Francis Lovell and Richard Grey.

Richard had been sorely tempted to simply swing a sword at Tudor himself and save the executioner's fee, but his rational side had prevailed. Tudor was a pretender and rebel, but he was one with a surprisingly worryingly large following. When he died, it would have to be in public, with all the trappings of a trial and everything that surrounded that. In the centre of London or one of the other big cities. Nothing else would stop him becoming a martyr for those who still resisted the Yorkist grip on England. Nothing else would satisfy the Woodvilles; give him the amount of leverage he wanted to have to act, to punish them for taking his daughter away from him. It was almost a pity he could only give them Buckingham's head, and not his full body.

He was itching to be back in London and would have set off the morning after the battle, had Richard Grey and James Harrington not taken wounded. Leaving without two of the most important men in the army would leave a sour impression in the minds of the men, especially as James wasn't important for his rank so much as his having dealt with Buckingham so effectively. And so they were stuck here, kicking their heels, while they waited for the men to recover.

"Your Grace! Your Grace!" A breathless messenger broke into Richard's musings. He swung round, somehow already knowing in his bones that this would be bad news. The messenger's grave face reinforced his thoughts.

The man pressed a scroll of tear-stained parchment into his hand, "I'm so, so sorry, My Lord of Gloucester."

Richard looked down at the scroll. It bore Anne's own personal seal. Anne's personal seal, covered in tears. It would have to do with the children. And, knowing which of them was the frailest, he thought which of them it would be to do with, as well.

He tore it open, only to find that although his worst fears had been realised, they had been realised in an entirely different manner to that which he had been expecting.

Unreasonable fury boiled up in him. So it wasn't enough for the Woodvilles to strip him and Anne of their only daughter, was it not? They had to cause his oldest son's death as well! Oh, it looked like an accident, but that was only because the Woodville bitch was good enough at covering her tracks and Anne too much of an innocent to read her hand all over this! Well, she wouldn't get away with it! Not this time. By God and all the saints, not this time!

Before he knew what he was doing, Richard had shouted for his horse and was mounting up. Alerted to his lord's tension by the commotion, Francis ran up to him just before he rode out.

"Richard. What are you doing? What's going on?"

"Go back to your duty with the prisoner, Francis," Richard snapped, "You wouldn't want the Woodvilles to think you were neglecting your duty now, would you?" His lips twisted up into a sardonic half-smile, "Goodness knows what price they'd exact from you."

"Damn the Woodvilles," Francis said cheerfully, "You're my liege lord, not them. If you're riding out, I'll ride with you."

Then he took a second look at Richard, "God's blood! You look as white as death! What in heaven's name is in that letter you're clutching?"

Richard hesitated, not sure he should admit to his suspicions, even to his closest friend. But then, all of a sudden, the words were on his lips before he could stop them.

"They've cost me my son, Francis. First they took my daughter and now they've cost me my son!"

Then he wrenched Ninian's head around and cantered away before he could say any more that might be used against him.

* * *

Edward kept his word to Izzy. His cousin Edward of Middleham was laid to rest at Fotheringhay with the rest of his Yorkist forefathers amid a ceremony that lasted days and drained the treasury half dry. The Duke of Gloucester's loyal ally, the Bishop of Durham, gave the elegy and Edward and Izzy, scorning the tradition that would have tried to keep the new monarchs away from a funeral, were the first to throw flowers into the grave above their young brother's heartbreakingly small casket.

Richard stood opposite them, his arm around Anne, supporting her as she leaned into him, half-dead with grief herself it seemed. His face was stoic, but his heart was silently aching. Aching for the loss of his precious son and also aching with pride for his little daughter, who, having shed all the tears that she had in her to shed, held herself erect at the young King's side, young face impressively blank as she watched all the other magnates follow her example and lay tributes at her brother's grave.

Each and every one of them followed their placing of flowers by crossing themselves and then turning to honour first their sovereigns and then the bereaved Duke and Duchess of Gloucester, even the Dowager Queen, the Princesses and the Marquis of Dorset, none of whom would necessarily ordinarily have done so.

It was a perfect show of royal unity, a unity that was only underscored by the tacit knowledge that they all shared; that the Tudor-Buckingham threat had been dealt with and their heads now rotted on spikes above London Bridge.

* * *

In private, however, the unity cracked and splintered as easily as ice in the midst of a thaw.

"You killed my son, _Lady Grey_! You told your son to let him lead the procession and then the guards couldn't save him and he died right there on the cobblestones, bleeding out, while you did nothing? You killed him! Christ, was it not enough to take my daughter from me? To turn her into your pawn instead of the proud Princess of Gloucester she should be? Did you have to take my son too?!"

Richard was beside himself with anger and grief. Elizabeth whirled on him, every inch of her radiating the famous Woodville arrogance.

"Those are baseless, unfounded accusations, My Lord of Gloucester and I will not stand for them! I grieve the Earl's death as much as you do! I regret sending you to deal with the rebellion so that you could not be with him in his last moments, but I would remind you that it was no more than your duty as the King's uncle and Lord Protector."

The pair were so furious that they'd forgotten where they were. Izzy, who had been watching the argument unfold with eyes round with horror, could suddenly bear it no longer. Not caring what it looked like for the Queen to flee the Audience Chamber, she leapt off her throne and bolted from the room with a strangled cry. Neither of the sparring pair noticed, but Edward did. He let her go and then sprang to his feet

"That is _enough_! Both of you!"

His voice rang out above their mutual recriminations, stunning them both into silence.

"Isabella is grieving her brother enough without being confronted with your endless bitter quarrels! I'd hoped being forced to work together for our sake might ease things between you, but obviously not."

He paused, rubbed an exasperated hand over his face and turned to his uncle, "Uncle Gloucester, I want you to know that I did not ask cousin Edward to ride at the head of the procession because my mother told me to. I did it because he was my brother and because I wanted to honour him as such. Because I wanted the country to see us united on my coronation day. That events turned out as sour as they did truly saddens me. I cannot stand here and watch you accuse my mother of causing your son's death, but if you concede that the ones have made come from a mind unhinged with grief and refrain from making any others, we shall leave the matter here. On another note, I know titles and land grants cannot bring back your son, but I hope they will at least show my gratitude for what you did for me and Isabella in the face of the rebels. I am stripping the proviso from your hold on the Neville lands. They will be yours to pass down to your son Robert and to his heirs in perpetuity, as my mother told you they would be if you supported me against Buckingham. And I shall dower Isabella with the forfeited Stafford lands, so that she may have an income that befits a Queen."

There was nothing Richard could say in response to that. He didn't even try, merely bowed his gratitude. Edward was right, these grants felt hollow, but at least the lad was trying to make amends for what his mother had done.

Satisfied with his uncle's response – or lack thereof – Edward turned to his mother, "Lady Mother," he began, silently praying that God would give him the right words for this confrontation, which would be by no means pleasant, "I know that everything you've done since my lord father died, you've done in an attempt to keep my throne safe for me, and I appreciate that. I do. But still, some of your acts have gone against the laws of God and man. Marrying me to Lady Isabella, without her father's permission, when we're both under the legal age of consent? How could you think you'd get away with that? My Uncle of Gloucester would be well within his rights to push for an annulment and I know it is only his fear for his daughter's reputation that is staying his hand. And some of the other rumours that have reached me recently…well, you'd better pray that I don't find any truth in them, is all I will say for now. I will never understand what it is you have against my uncle of Gloucester, but I am glad to say that I have come to draw my own conclusions on the man now. I didn't trust him when I took my throne, but he has proven his loyalty, to his daughter, if not to me. As such, I intend to keep him close as my councillor for the foreseeable future. Since you clearly will not be able to accept a Court where His Grace is in such high prominence, I am banishing you to your manor of Greenwich with immediate effect. I shall review my decision when I reach my majority in a year's time. I pray to God you'll have accepted the state of affairs as they are by then."

Elizabeth's jaw dropped, "Edward! I…. I'm your mother!"

"Yes, but I am no longer your little boy. I am your King and you will respect me as such. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a wife who needs my succour. Good day, Madam. Uncle Gloucester."

Edward bowed his head slightly and strode from the room, leaving a dumbstruck Elizabeth Woodville behind him. Richard struggled to constrain his lips so that they didn't twist up into a smirk. It seemed young Ned was becoming a man sooner than they had all expected. Maybe, given a year or two to grow up a little, he wouldn't be the Woodville King they had all feared after all.


	6. VI: June 1492

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I couldn't resist the Shakespeare references... One day, I might go back and flesh out the missing years here, but for now, this is the final part of the lives of young Edward V and Isabella of Gloucester... Enjoy!

 

**VI: June 1492**

The castle was swathed in black and the low keening of mourners echoed through the shadowy passages surrounding the chapel.

Inside said chapel lay a woman who had embodied both the role of a knight's daughter, wife and widow and that of a Queen of England. She had not always been loved for doing so, but she had done so and now that she was dead, she was being mourned as her rank demanded.

Three men knelt before her bier; two of them fair and golden as the sun on a spring morning, the other with hair as black as night. Two of them her sons, one of them both her brother-in-law and her mortal enemy. They were all praying, their lips moving so fast the words they were saying blurred into one another and their fingers flicking over the cool, hard beads of their rosaries. And that was how it should be. Despite their private mixed feelings towards the woman they now knelt to honour, they had all been trained in duty. They knew it was up to them to speed the woman's soul towards Heaven with their supplications to the Father Almighty, and so that was what they did.

That their minds might not be wholly intent upon their prayers, however, was evident from the way none of them could help flinching whenever a footfall was heard in the passage outside and from the way that the youngest of them eventually sprang up at the end of a decade, crossing himself hastily as he did so.

"Christ, Ned, I don't know how you can kneel there so calmly! If it were my bride in childbed, I'd be pacing the room outside her chamber, not kneeling before my mother's bier," he exclaimed and the one who had been kneeling beside him, the older of the golden-haired young men glanced up.

"There is nothing I can do for Isabella, Dickon. However, I can do my part in praying for Mother's soul. Ergo, my place is here, not with my wife."

He too, however, stood, and, for a long moment, glanced down at the waxen effigy atop the bier, "She looks peaceful, doesn't she? I don't think I ever saw her that peaceful in life."

"Peaceful was not a word one would generally use to describe your mother, My Lord," The final man before the bier now got to his feet, joining the conversation. Ned frowned at him, "Peace, Uncle Richard. I know you and my mother saw many things very differently, but above her bier is hardly a seemly time to air that fact. For better or for worse, my mother simply did what she thought was right by me and the rest of our family. She ought to be honoured for that, not scorned."

Duly chastened, Richard opened his mouth as if to say something, but a commotion at the chapel door forestalled him. The king's older sister, the Duchess of Albany, who had accompanied her husband to Court for her mother's funeral, looked in and curtsied at the sight of her brother.

"Sire. You're needed in Queen Isabella's chambers. Kate and I will take over your vigil here. Go."

Edward needed little convincing. He strode from the chapel purposefully, pausing only once on the threshold, "Do I have a son? Cecily, do I have a son?"

Cecily half-shrugged, an elegant, careless gesture she had picked up from the ladies of the French court during her husband's exile there, "I'll not say anything, Your Grace. Go and find out."

The way her lips quirked upwards, however, as she looked past the King and Duke of York as they hurried from the chapel at Richard, told the older man all he needed to know. His daughter had done her duty and given her young husband a son. The House of York was safe on the throne again at last.

Relief filled him and he couldn't help but glance down at the effigy of the woman he had resented for so long. He'd hated her for marrying their children, all those years ago, but as time had passed and the young sovereigns had grown together, first into their rule and then into marriage proper, he had come to realise that maybe, just maybe, things hadn't worked out so badly after all. And that despite all the plotting and counterplotting he and Elizabeth had engaged in in those first few hectic months of 1483. With hindsight, he'd realised that their internal feud might well have been the death of the House of York altogether. It was only thanks to a combination of bad weather and poor leadership on the rebels' part and luck on theirs that the Buckingham-Tudor rebellion had been so easy to crush that autumn. And then his son Ned had died and he and Elizabeth had been at each other's throats because of it. Almost unbelievably at the time, but thankfully, young King Edward had taken that as a sign that he would have to step up and start ruling for himself, rather than sit back and risk their implacable hatred of each other tearing England apart.

And he'd done a fine job of it. With one sister Duchess of Beja, another Duchess of Albany, the youngest in a convent and the others currently in negotiation with English noblemen such as their cousins of Buckingham and striving to secure Charlotte of Naples for his brother, Edward was proving to be every bit the diplomat his father had been, if not better. With the news that there was another York Prince of Wales crying in his mother's arms, they could truly look to the future now. They could look to securing the little boy a future as golden as the three suns in splendour that had once been his grandfather's banner.

Unexpectedly moved, Richard found himself brushing his hand over the waxen one that lay crossed over the effigy's breast.

"I'll see to it, Elizabeth," he vowed softly, "I know you didn't trust me in life, but I swear to you, upon my soul and upon all the chantries I've ever vowed to found, that I will do my utmost to give our grandson the world he deserves. You can trust me on this. I swear."

Drawing his sword, he laid it gently on the bier for a moment and bent to kiss the hilt where it formed a cross with the pommel. A sense of warmth and peace filled him, and, when he looked down upon the waxen face again, it seemed to him, just for a moment, as if the dead Queen's features softened and lost their habitual arrogance. As if, from wherever her soul was at the moment, she had heard and accepted his vow.

A moment later, the feeling was gone, Richard was shaking his head to clear it of such fanciful thoughts and turning on his heel to follow his nephews out of the chapel. Isabella had done her duty. It was time he went and told her how proud she'd made him into the bargain.

* * *

"Twins?" Edward breathed, gazing stupidly at the tiny bundles Izzy was holding. Despite the exhaustion plain on her face, she mustered the energy to smirk up at him, "Yes, husband. Twins."

"How on earth… Aren't twins dangerous?"

"All childbirth is dangerous. The midwives and St Margaret took good care of me. And honestly, we should have known something was different from your mother's experiences, looking back. The amount of times I felt the child move…"

Edward chuckled as Izzy pulled a face even at the memory, "Never mind, Izzy," he cut her off, "They're here now. They're here and you're safe. That's all I care about."

Leaning down, he kissed her and then took the slightly larger bundle into his arms, "I'm told we have one of each, is that right?"

"Yes. That's your son. Our son. Our Prince of Wales. And this is our daughter."

Edward looked across at the child she was holding. "I know we discussed Mary for a daughter, after my late sister, but I'm tempted to name her Margaret now, knowing she's a twin. As you say, St Margaret must have been watching over you to bring you all three safely through your ordeal."

"Margaret. Margaret," Izzy mumbled the name under her breath twice, then shook her head, "She's not a Margaret. It just doesn't feel right."

Edward sighed and hesitated. "Elizabeth?" he suggested. "After my mother and sister?"

This time, after testing the name out, Izzy nodded, "It suits her. And it is…well, naming her in her grandmother's honour seems fitting, don't you think?"

A note of melancholy entered the room at those words. For a long moment, neither of them dared even to breathe. At last, Edward swallowed visibly and reached to touch Izzy's hand.

"You're right," he choked, "It is fitting. She'd be so proud."

Then he shook himself and turned his attention to their son, "This boy's easy, of course. He'll be Edward, like his father, uncle and grandfather before him."

"No," Izzy retaliated, "He won't be."

"What?" Edward looked up in shock, "But we've always planned to name our firstborn Edward. After your brother. Besides, all the Yorkist Kings are named Edward. Why break with tradition?"

"We're naming his sister for your mother, the woman who did everything she could to secure your hold on England's throne. Who was the man at her side through it all? Who was named Protector for you in your father's will? Who led the royal forces against Tudor and Buckingham?"

Izzy's gaze was earnest and it was all too easy to guess what she wanted. Edward sighed inwardly, but he couldn't truly see a reason to deny her. She loved her father and he was a loyal subject. Besides, Richard was just as much a Yorkist name as Edward, if not more so, for it had been Richard, Duke of York who had first laid claim to England's throne in the name of his house back in the 1450s. All things considered, it wasn't worth insisting on naming their son Edward above Richard, not when she was so young and the aftereffects childbirth would be playing havoc with her emotions. Let her name the boy Richard after her father, if that was she really wanted. It wasn't as if they wouldn't have another son within the year, one they could name Edward.

If Edward had known then that the twins' birth had taken such a toll on Izzy's body that it would be almost a full decade before she'd carry another child to term, much less bear a living son, he might have fought harder for the name he wanted. As it was, however, he contented himself with merely jibing lightly, "I'm not sure you could say your father was truly at my mother's side, love. They hated each other."

"Then their namesakes shall simply have to do better, shan't they?" Izzy teased back, before handing him their daughter.

"Go on, take them outside and show them off. I know you're burning to."

"It's amazing how well you know me, My Lady," Edward said softly, bending to kiss her forehead as she slipped back beneath the coverlet. She was so tired, she barely heard him leave the room.

Edward, on the other hand, stepped out into Izzy's public chambers, carefully balancing a child in each arm. The courtiers gathered around, chattering, hushed instantly, looking to him expectantly. He held the babies up, prolonging the suspense just that bit longer.

"My Lords, my Ladies, I present to you the Prince Richard and the Princess Elizabeth, the true succeeders of our noble House of York. God Save and Bless Their Highnesses!"

"Richard and Elizabeth!" The court cheered it back at him, startling the babies, who began to shriek, furious at being disturbed. Edward hardly heard them, however, so overwhelmed was he by joy and pride and relief. He'd done his duty. His father's legacy was safe at last.

And Richard of Gloucester too, thought the same, as he joined in the toast to England's newest Prince and Princess. After nearly a decade of scarcely-concealed uncertainty, the House of York was safe at last. After a lengthy winter of discontent, summer had come. Summer had come and the White Rose had bloomed again, finer and stronger than ever.


End file.
